


make new idols

by dentigerous



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arthur POV, Dreamshare heists, Dreamsharing, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Eames, Slow Burn, Trans Arthur, Trans Character, gender feelings, gender heist boyfriends, pasiv, rivals to friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:21:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28271580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dentigerous/pseuds/dentigerous
Summary: As Arthur comes into his own as a point man, he grapples with his gender and his growing attraction to the enigmatic Eames. When Eames comes onto the team for a honey heist in Dublin, Arthur is sucked into pretending to be Eames' boyfriend as the forger's cover while he goes on the run from an Indo-China triad. After the job's done, Arthur agrees to help Eames get out of trouble in South Asia, but getting to Borneo is the easy part. Getting into the dreams of an enforcer of Red Pole status only known as the Arrow...a fair bit harder.----This fic was originally titled Gender Heist Boyfriends, just so everyone knows what they're getting into.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	1. He steals the case

**Author's Note:**

> Arthur POV, mostly adventure, with a touch of rivals-to-lovers romance, and a lot of gender exploration. Because in this fic, gender is the first Inception.

When Arthur first went into his own dream, without a directive, or mission, without being surrounded by his classmates or soldiers, he was surprised to look down and see that his chest was flat. He blinked and pressed his hand against his chest, marveling at it. There was no softness, no curves, just a plane. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

He didn’t go by Arthur at this point, and when Cobb found him in the dream, the older man raised his eyebrows. Arthur stared at him. Cobb just shrugged.

“You’re not the first, kid.”

Arthur swallowed. Cobb had offered to meet him at an underground dream share facility, had come with a proposal. He didn’t need to hear anything else.

“What do you need me to do?”

“Steal the experimental portable somnacin case you’ve been working from at the Pentagon program.”

“How do you know about the Pentagon program?”

Cobb and Arthur were strolling down a lane that looked like Washington D.C., memorials in the distance, the slight smell of the Potomac in the air. It was Arthur’s dream, and Cobb’s Architecture was impeccable. Arthur had, frankly, never imagined that his dreams could look so real. The summer was thick across the palisades. There were even cherry blossoms. Who cared what season it was? 

“You’re asking me to commit treason,” Arthur said, carefully.

Cobb smirked. “I know what I’m asking.”

Arthur, in fairness, thought about the rest of the group involved in the Reverie. He was the tech person, knew the ins-and-outs of the device. He was being actively recruited for a Quantico position teaching dream-sharing to new FBI recruits. His marksmanship was near enough to some records to be impressive.

He also fucking hated the military. He hated the uniforms, he hated the wars, he hated who he was the only woman in the room sometimes, even when he knew he wasn’t a woman at all.

Arthur took a deep breath, considering.

“And what are you offering?”

“Twice what they pay you now,” Cobb answered.

Arthur hesitated. He paused beside a pool, some kind of fountain to some kind of memorial. It took a few seconds before he recognized the stone hemicycle of the Military Women’s Memorial. He pressed his mouth and looked over at Cobb.

“That’s it?” The man was asking him to commit treason. More than betraying his country, which Arthur felt hit-or-miss on even on his best days, the Reverie team was counting on him. Arthur walked around the circular water feature.

“For one job.” Cobb had stopped walking, letting Arthur get ahead. Arthur faced him from across the reflecting pool.

“I’m sorry?”

“I’ll pay you twice your salary for one job, and the experimental case,” Cobb said, his voice totally serious.

“Do you think that I didn’t do my research on you, Mister Cobb?” Arthur asked, narrowing his eyes. “You’ve been flagged across a couple countries, but your name is surprisingly clean in the US systems. Either you’ve got contacts, or you’re working for the government.”

“Maybe a little bit of both,” Cobb admitted.

“So why me?” Arthur felt like if he were five he would have stamped his foot and pouted. Cobb was only giving him some of the information, and while finding facts and making connections was literally part of his training, he felt like Cobb’s mind was something he couldn’t pry.

Around them, projections started to stare at Cobb as they waked respectfully around the memorial. Arthur took a deep breath, willing himself to calm down. It wouldn't work for long, but maybe he’d get some time.

“Because I also know a forger.”

“Everyone knows a forger,” Arthur snapped.

“I know the best,” Cobb said, gesturing to Arthur, to the way he looked now, in a three-piece suit, with a flat chest, short hair, shined shoes. “You want to make your dream a reality?”

Arthur took a deep breath, looking at his reflection in the water. A softer face, long hair pulled back in a strict ponytail, a little bit of makeup. He fucking hated that face. When he looked up, Cobb was smiling.

“Welcome to the team.”

* * *

He stole the case. As soon as he entered that dream with Cobb he knew that it was all downhill from there. Whatever modicum of self-control and stability he had built up for himself erased in just a few minutes. So much for that.

He hated the military for keeping him in a body that wasn’t his. He loved dreams too much to let them go. Cobb offered him the chance to be himself and do what he loved. No compromises.

So he took the job, ran point, was the tech man for the new PASIV case, and after he cashed his check he found a doctor, followed up on a chemist who sold him the drugs he needed, got some new documents forged, and became Arthur. Really Arthur. Dreams-to-realities Arthur.

Eight months later he reached out to Cobb again, found through back channels and old contacts, and came on board as Cobb’s permanent point man. It was easier to be a part of a team, and Mallorie Miles had a fucking pedigree to accompany her explorations into the dream-state.

If he was going to commit treason, it was going to be with the best.


	2. They were old photos

The first thing the forger had said to him when they were introduced was “So you’re Arthur,” which Arthur was not expecting, despite knowing that Cobb had brought him in, and which the con man quickly followed up with “you clean up better than I thought you would.”

“Excuse me?” Arthur put down the newest batch of somnacin he received from Uriel, glaring at Eames.

“I just formed an image of you, in my head,” Eames said, smirking. “Also, from the photos you sent.”

The doctored photos, a strange AI-fueled composite combined from Arthur’s image a year ago, his younger brother, and old photos of his father. It wasn’t perfect, and it didn’t quite match up to what he l looked like now, but it was passable on a blurry passport or driver’s license. Of course a forger would have been able to tell that those photos were manipulated. He hadn’t realized that the documents forger would be the same as the con man Cobb wanted to regularly hire to be a part of extraction teams.

Fucking great.

“They were old photos,” Arthur said carefully.

“I can see that,” Eames said, still smiling.

Arthur couldn’t tell if Eames was sharing a joke with him or just fucking around, and either way he didn’t really like it. Better to just be as professional as possible, do the job, and hope the next one didn’t require a master puppeteer.

“I have a brief for you.” He walked by Eames to the table where he had carefully compiled all the relevant information about Johannes Engström, copyright lawyer and antiquities smuggler, he could find. It was deliberately arranged, starting with his place of work and going right down to the cafe where he regularly ordered a Karelian pastry every Wednesday while walking his dog, a Finnish Spitz named Pirrellä.

Eames picked it up, flipped through it, and put it back down. Arthur raised his eyebrows.

“What’s his relationship with his family like?”

“Excuse me?” Arthur pointedly looked at the brief. “It’s all in there—”

“Right, yes, I know. Which is why I’m asking you.” Eames smirked.

“You could just read the brief,” Arthur stammered, eyes going a little wide.

Eames shrugged, looking down and flipping through the extensive collection of facts, figures, and observations. “Or you could just tell me.”

“It’s strained,” Cobb said, walking over and interrupting the standoff between the two men, “especially with his daughter.”

“Yes,” Arthur said through gritted teeth, “that’s in the brief.”

“But isn’t it so much easier to just tell me?” Eames asked, tucking the folder under his arm. Eames didn’t respond, and Cobb thankfully stepped in to maneuver Eames out of the way, and back through the small apartment they had managed to secure for the job.

He shot Arthur a look as he pulled Eames away and while Arthur could clearly read a glimpse of exasperation on Cobb’s face, there was also a warning. Arthur rolled his eyes and turned back to his research, spread out in delicate piles, full of tabs and color-coded notes. He had more work to do.

* * *

The next day, Arthur confronted Eames in a small cafe where he was doing“reconnaissance,” which really translated to “trying to find the strongest coffee in Helsinki.”

It was a warm morning, even for late spring, and Eames was sat outside, nursing a coffee and a bowl of porridge with berries. Arthur sat down at the table, ignored the absolutely withering look that Eames shot him, andpassed over a new folder.

“It’s cloudy out,” Eames murmured into his coffee. “No need for those poncy sunnies, mate.”

“Helsinki has outdoor CCTVs at every stoplight,” Arthur said, matter-of-factly. “I’d rather not make it easy for Interpol to get a good still of my face.”

“Just change faces,” Eames grumbled. He glanced at the manilla folder sitting on the table. It was standard, even looked like it had been stamped. There was an address on the front. It didn’t look nearly as professional as the carefully labeled stacks of paper Arthur had set out on the dining room table. It was a forgery. Or near enough that one could still call it a forgery without being completely wrong.

“What’s this?” Eames asked, not moving.

“This is a dossier on Tuija Strand, nee Engström,” he said, smiling at a waitress and gesturing her over. He ordered a coffee in passable Finnish, and then looked back over at Eames, who had turned the envelope and was peeking inside, but not actually opening it.

“Everything you could possibly need, including a USB stick of a few of her piano recitals, and some home movies she shared on Facebook a few days ago. Gestures, inflection, tone. You should be able to get what you need from that.”

Eames remained silent as the waitress dropped off a coffee. Arthur waited.

“Hm.” Eames pulled his hand back from the envelope.

“Cobb and Miles have informed me that I’m to indulge your quirks,” he said, sipping his coffee, as if he had something better to do than play nice with a con man. “So you can either read the files or you can use this time to ask me questions.”

Cobb and Miles had done no such thing. But if Arthur wanted the job done right—which he very much did—he’d play by Eames’ rules. As long as he made sure that it didn’t look like he really wanted to. There was something about giving in to a man who looked like he had everything he could want that irked Arthur.

“I’ll read it,” Eames murmured. He shifted a little and then pointed. Short, subtle, more of a shrug and a turn followed by a little gesture. Arthur looked over quickly, faster than his drill sergeant would have liked, and narrowed his eyes.

Strand was walking on the sidewalk across the street. She was arm-in-arm with her husband, and they were leaning into each other.

“Or,” Eames continued. “I could just tail them for a few hours before their anniversary date at the music hall, and get everything I need to know that way.”

Arthur didn’t move. He stared at the Strands as they disappeared down the street. Eames stood up and put a series of bills on the table, smirking at Arthur.

Tuija’s husband must have bought the tickets. That’s why it didn’t come up on any records. Arthur hadn’t even thought to check if they were going to do anything for their anniversary. It made sense, and he hated that Eames had pulled one over on him, at his own fucking game.

“Coffee’s on me, love.” Eames stepped back from the table, walking into the street. He smirked and then turned back into the crowd, almost literally disappearing into the mid-morning street traffic.

Arthur spent a few minutes seething before he realized that Eames had taken the folder.


	3. We’ve only just met

One of the worst things about Eames, by far, was how infuriatingly competent he was. The Engström job went perfectly, all hinging on the fact that when Eames appeared as Tuija Strand he was so utterly convincing that Johannes Engström gave up all his secrets in seconds. Arthur was even more inclined to be prickly because if he had his way he would have dismissed Strand as a minor player in Engström’s life. It was Eames who had suggested using her rocky relationship with her father to their advantage, and if he hadn’t, the job might not have worked at all.

Arthur took some credit. He sent a few messages to Engström telling him to be at certain points in Helsinki for illicit pickups, putting him in a perfect view of his daughter. This was after Eames had mentioned Strand was in town for her anniversary, but still. Arthur had reopened old wounds, and Eames poured on the salt, and at the end of the dream, the man was so distraught that when they kicked out before him, all of the group saw the tears on his face.

All information on Engström’s smuggling successfully delivered to Cobb, Arthur and Eames were left alone, the two odd men out of the pair of Cobb-and-Miles. They were alone in the apartment, and Eames seemed unwilling to leave without an iron guarantee that they had gotten exactly what the client needed.

It made sense, honestly. If Arthur weren’t so tied to the pair of them he might be concerned. As it was Eames was really the one of them that wasn’t a part of the group. The contractor.

Still, he had done well.

“If you’d like a drink, I do believe you’ve earned one on my tab,” Arthur said, something like conciliatory, standing on the edge of the living room where Eames had sprawled on the couch with one of the local arts magazines he had snagged while out in Helsinki. Eames looked up at him, folding down one of the corners of the magazine. Arthur tried not to think about the ease in which Eames wore masculinity, in pastel colors and pants that weren’t really fitted. The slouchy kind of comfortable that only really came from having a sense of style cultivated over years.

“I’ve earned more than that, I think,” he said, turning back to his magazine.

“If you’re with me, you’re hardly going to miss the payment,” Arthur pointed out. “And there’s more of a chance I give you the slip while I’m out enjoying a celebratory whiskey and you’re in here mulling over the next estate auction to hit up.”

“You couldn’t give me the slip if you tried,” Eames said, but set the magazine aside and stood up anyway. “But keeping an eye on you doesn’t sound like the worst way to spend an evening.”

“I’m flattered,” Arthur said, not sure if he was being insulted or hit on.

“You should be,” Eames muttered, pulling on his jacket, arranging his collar. “I’m clearly in high demand.”

“Clearly.” Arthur smiled, pulling on a peacoat and his sunglasses. “There’s a place down the road that’s got an excellent selection.”

“You say that like you think I’m hard to please.” Eames slipped by Arthur, opening the door. It was almost held out behind him, and Arthur tried not to let the other man rattle him too much.

“My apologies for assuming you to be a man of taste,” Arthur said, walking down the hall to the elevator.

“Mm,” Eames had a look on his face that was hard to read. Arthur wasn’t surprised. He had been in intelligence, but he wasn’t a spy. Eames had the look of a man who knew too much.

“You’ve been digging,” he said, almost accusingly.

“Part of the job,” Arthur admitted, walking into the elevator. “You can’t blame me.”

“I would have hoped you’d trust me.”

The elevator doors closed. Arthur had to work hard to keep a smile from his face, had to be very careful not to show how much he was rather enjoying bantering with someone. He shrugged. “We’ve only just met.”

He met Eames’ eye as he walked out of the elevator, towards the street. “And you did lift my wallet at the very first opportunity, so you’ll have to excuse me if I don’t find the excavations unwarranted.”

“Ah, Arthur,” Eames said, smirking openly, passing him back the wallet that he had stolen when he had brushed by him at the apartment door. “I like the way you talk to me.”

“I aim to please, Mister Eames.”

* * *

Arthur had to admit that he had only a passing knowledge of good liquor, and when Eames ordered something unpronounceable, he decided to order the same, hoping that Eames’ knew what he was doing.

Two drinks in, Arthur wasn’t sure that Eames knew much about anything. The whiskey he had chosen was harsh and bitter, and honestly, Arthur should have stuck with the bourbon he knew, but no. He had to impress the hot, stupidly charming con man with his ability to smirk with just his eyes and his willingness to drink cheap, foreign whiskey from Belarus.

He loosened his tie, took a deep breath, and ordered a third drink. He wasn’t so much of a fool as to attempt another bit of the Belarusski whiskey and opted for a much more manageable vodka tonic. This would be his last drink.

“You sure about that, darling?” Eames was leaning back, his own third drink nearly done. “Willing to walk away so soon.”

“Ah, I stay much longer and you’ll steal my identity, cufflinks, and my watch.”

“Well aren’t you keen,” Eames leaned over and slapped his hand down on the bar.

Arthur blinked once before recognizing his watch on the polished veneer. “You bastard.”

“Not legally,” Eames said, smirking as he reclined in the chair.

Arthur blinked again. He was putting his watch on and looked down, fumbling with the clasp. “Well, I didn’t mean it literally.”

“No, of course not,” Eames said, smirking a little.

Arthur had stumbled. Of course, he had done great work, exceptional work researching Eames and getting all that he could take, from the man’s pieced-together past. His some-kind-of-titled mother divorced her high-profile husband to immediately marry the local florist, and Eames’ birth eight months later.

The point man took a deep breath, still fumbling with his watch.

Eames reached over, pushing Arthur’s hands aside, and secured the watch around his wrist.

“Have I got you that nervous, Arty?” He asked, leaning in, voice low. “Or are you just drunk?”

“Don’t call me Arty,” Arthur said sharply. He pulled his wrist back, shooting Eames a glare. Eames, for his part, just smiled, sipped his drink that was far too fucking strong for Arthur to keep up with, but that was fine. Arthur sipped his vodka and ignored his rising flush, and preferred to blame that, among other things on the drinks.

“This is my last drink.”

“You mentioned that before,” Eames said.

“I mean it.”

“Of course you do.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Arthur snapped, taking another sip of the drink. He looked over at the bartender and gestured. His jaw was set as he watched the barkeep make her way over. He didn’t miss her wink as she leaned over and asked how she could help him, and it was flattering to be hit on by two people in less than five minutes.

He smiled at her and passed along his card.

“The whole tab, sir?”

Arthur nodded. He was sure that Eames had goaded him into paying for some kind of massive bill, but in fairness…he had taken the day, after all. Maybe he deserved it.

“Well, thank you,” Eames murmured, smiling into his glass, clearly charmed by the fact that Arthur was talking mostly to himself without realizing it.

Arthur sighed. “I’ll freely admit you can drink me under the table, Mister Eames. I simply request that you don’t rub it in, particularly when I’m picking up the tab for your habit.”

“Ah, but a lovely habit it is. And wonderful company to indulge with.”

“You’re a flatterer,” Arthur murmured, watching the barkeep. “That’s dangerous.”

“Are you in danger, Arthur?”

Arthur glanced over at Eames. Eames, with his patterned shirt, three buttons undone. He was leaning half against the counter, watching Arthur, his gaze unwavering. There was an intensity there, something like a promise, and Arthur knew that there was no way he could let himself get attached to a man like that.

He also wasn’t ready for the conversation that he would have to have before he could even consider taking Eames to bed. Not tonight.

“No,” Arthur said, smiling a little. He nodded at the bartender, gave the woman a hefty tip on top of the bill that was already rather steep, and stood up. “Not tonight, Mister Eames.”

If Eames looked disappointed, it only flashed over his face for a second. “Wouldn’t want to mix business and pleasure, would we?”

“Something like that.” Arthur fixed his tie, put on his jacket, and was happy to leave most of his vodka tonic on the counter. He nodded at Eames and took a step back. “Have a good night.”

“Don’t worry about that, darling.” Eames was sat back, still nursing the third drink.

Arthur let him have the last word. He ducked his head and left the bar, heading down the road to the apartment.

Eventually, it would be easy to flirt with a man and take them home. Or pick up the pretty bartender and ask her number. Eventually, those things would be easier, or at least…manageable. Possible.

Now? No.

Arthur went to his hotel near the apartment they were using as an HQ. He took a long shower, colder than comfortable, and watched his scars turn purple across his chest.

Eventually he’d be able to do things the easy way. Eventually.


	4. Tempt me, sweetheart

The extraction jobs came frequently enough to keep Arthur in suits and allowed him to purchase two homes and an apartment. He had a nice sized place in the Hudson Valley, another out in Taos with more land attached than the incorporated town where he grew up, and the apartment was in Berlin. All paid for in cash. Dream sharing was still just strange enough, just fringe, that jobs were scarce but exceptionally well-paying.

Two years after his first meeting with Eames, they had another job that left them in need of a forger. The world had narrowed somewhat; Cobb and Miles had become Mr. and Mrs. Cobb. Mrs. Cobb had, in the ways that married folk of certain genders are wont to do, fallen pregnant. All this meant that in addition to a forger, they were in want of a second extractor.

Arthur, from his home in Taos, hearing Cobb explain all this for him home in Seattle, thought this a spectacularly bad idea.

“The fact that we’re bringing Eames back is going to be tense enough—“

“Why?” Cobb interrupted. “The last job we did with him, in Oslo—“

“Helsinki.”

“The point is that he did great. A little bit of gambling after the fact, but nothing we were concerned with. We need a forger.”

“Why don’t we bring Enikő in?” Arthur asked plaintively, walking around his kitchen and pulling veggies onto a chopping board. “She’s decent.”

“Decent is decent,” Cobb said, voice tinny as Arthur put him on speakerphone. “We need spectacular.”

Arthur sighed, arranging the sweet potatoes, onions, and peppers in front of him. Cobb was, unfortunately, right. And Eames, despite being more familiar than Arthur really wanted in any kind of coworker, was a known element. Arthur was confident that he could handle Eames.

“You’re right,” Arthur said, starting to peel the sweet potatoes. “And the second extractor?”

“I’m thinking Ephron.”

Arthur winced. “No. He gets nervous.”

“You’d be nervous too if you got shot as many times as he had with the Kiyikbibi job.”

“Exactly.” Arthur started on the second potato. “He went into an active war zone with no secondary security, Cobb, that doesn’t exactly bode well for his future decision making.”

“Well, who would you suggest?” Cobb’s tone was that of a bemused older sibling. Of course, he would suggest Ephron. It was nearly a test, just close enough to be one. Arthur wasn’t sure, in that moment, whether Cobb was testing him or not. It didn’t matter, as long as Ephron stayed off the docket.

“Oisín,” Arthur said, starting on the pepper. “She’s familiar with the area, she did that extraction in Libya for the Northern government, and she’s too old to effectively distract Eames.”

“Oisín’s only five years older than I am,” Cobb said, and Arthur could hear the smile on his face.

“My point has been made.” Arthur found a bowl, paused to look outside, the open porch to the left of his kitchen looking out on the desert. The sun was setting in the distance, purple and dark, deep red.

He loved it here. The silence, the expanse. He was grateful that he had a job…or had something that let him live like this. And no fucking connections back to his life in the army. Not even a name.

“Arthur?”

“Sorry,” Arthur snapped back to attention, zeroing in on the phone. “You were saying?”

“Get in touch with Eames and Oisín. Get them on board, and make arrangements to be in Dublin in two weeks.”

Arthur sighed, and as he did the knife slipped, slicing his finger. Not deep, but enough to hurt, and enough to make him wince and make a noise.

“Something else to say?” Cobb asked, taking Arthur’s pain as a question.

“Nothing, boss,” Arthur quickly wrapped up his finger, annoyed. “We’ll be there.”

“Great. I’ve uploaded all the info to the server,” Cobb said, and Arthur could hear Mal in the background, asking what Cobb wanted for dinner. The domesticity of the scene made Arthur wonder if dreamsharing was really the space for a married couple, much less a pair with a child on the way. “And Arthur—“

“Mm?” Arthur leaned against his counter, looking out at the red desert, still glowing despite the sunset.

“It’ll be worth it.”

Arthur didn’t respond, and Cobb hung up.

A few hours later, when Arthur finally sat in front of his laptop with the docket open in front of him, his eyebrows went way up.

There were enough zeroes at the end of that figure to make working with Eames very, very worth it.

* * *

It took two days for Arthur to get the details down. The Republic’s spies were good, but he was better, and taking care of all the flight routes, itineraries, cabbie numbers, the mark’s position, hacking security systems, and even digging up enough dirt to be able to safely interact with a variety of people and feel comfortable that should they turn on him and his crew he could bribe or blackmail into submission, as well as getting as much information on the Dublin dreamshare community took three computers hacking a half dozen systems.

Easy.

Even Oisín. Took two minutes for Arthur to explain who they were after and what they wanted and she was in. The money was the cherry on top.

The hard part was Eames.

Eventually, after about thirty hours awake, Arthur decided,fuck it. He was going to have to talk to the man sooner rather than later, and why not now? It was more or less the middle of the day in Samarinda, and Arthur had a cup of coffee with a healthy dose of whiskey, and found a number that was likely to be Eames or likely to be a call center.

Hard to tell.

Still, he gave it a ring and sat back, the itinerary up on a laptop in front of him.

“Mm’hello?” Eames’ voice was rough, and there were sounds in the background like a market.

“Eames.” Arthur sat up, a little surprised that Eames had picked up at all.

“Arthur.” Eames' smirk could be heard through the phone.

“I have a job for you.”

“Of course you do, daring. People have jobs for me all the time.”

“Not with the kind of paycheck I’m offering.”

“Tempt me, sweetheart.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and sent a text message to Eames’ phone. He heard the sounds of the market and then the sound of Eames sliding the phone against his shoulder.

“You do know how to sweet talk after all.”

“I need you in Dublin in two days.” Arthur sat back, taking a deep breath. He took a sip of his coffee and heard Eames chuckling over the phone.

“You know I’m wanted by three different street gangs in Dublin.”

“And the Gardaí,” Arthur said, helpfully, “But don’t worry. I’ve greased the wheels.” Arthur said, pulling up the information he had dug up on the Kinahan Cartel, the MPL, Ormond boys. Somehow each of these street gangs had some kind of stake on Eames’ blood.

“Might take a bit more than that.”

“I’m sending you flight information now.” Arthur knew he had Eames on the hook. It took a couple extra ten thousand but Arthur skimmed it off his cut, giving the two of them equal takes. It was what Eames deserved, frankly, but it was still annoying that Arthur thought they had to make up for the fact that he was the one asking Eames to put himself in harm's way.It was part of the job, but still.

“You have to meet me at the airport,” Eames said. “I don’t care what you’ve done for the coppers, the Gardaí don’t fuck around.”

“And what do you think I’ll be able to do?” Arthur asked. “I’m hardly a safety net.”

“No, but if there’s going to be a shootout I’d like someone next to me who’s invested in keeping me alive.”

“So you want me to pick you up?”

“You’re lucky I’m not asking for a personal escort out of Borneo,” Eames’ drawled.

“I’d rather hire an escort, if we’re being honest.”

“Plenty of those here, don’t worry about that.”

Arthur winced. He didn’t quite know what to say to that, and he must have paused longer than was comfortable for Eames, because he huffed on the other end of the line. “It’s just a joke, Arthur.”

“Right,” Arthur said, mouth dry despite the coffee in his hand. Maybe that was why.

“What time is it there?” Across the world, Arthur could practically hear the wheels turning in the Brit’s head. “It must be near four in the morning.”

“Yeah, it’s…” Arthur blinked. “How do you know where I am?” He felt a chill. The Taos house was almost entirely off the grid, on fifty acres, with much more security than he really needed, but it was his primary residence. He lived here. It had art he had purchased, furniture he had custom-built. There was even a schedule on the kitchen fridge with his medical appointments. This was his home, and Eames knew where it was. Probably knew the layout, too, exactly where he was.

All this came in a rush, in a bolt of lightning that made him uncomfortable. Even Cobb didn’t know details about the Taos house, had respected Arthur’s need for privacy.

Not Eames.

“Arthur let’s not pretend that we don’t keep tabs on each other.”

Arthur paused, again too long, and on the other end of the line, Eames chuckled.

“See you in Dublin.”

The end of the line went dead, and Arthur felt cold. He put his phone down and leaned back in his chair, running his hands through his hair. He downed his coffee, found even the surprise of the bitterness not enough to keep him from feeling exhausted and hurt.

He closed his laptop and stood up quickly, walking around his house once before standing in the kitchen, one hand on the marble countertop, the other holding a glass of something strong and neat. He took a deep breath, looking out at the desert, dark blue, just beginning to reflect the new day.

Silhouetted against the horizon, a pair of coyotes, prowling on the edge of his property.

Arthur finished his drink and turned in, already regretting agreeing to meet Eames in Dublin.

This was going to be a long job.


	5. When did you get a coffee?

It was, very typically, raining in Dublin the morning of Eames’ arrival. Arthur had, after only a small amount of teasing from Cobb, had agreed to pick up the forger from the airport, which was far out of the city center, and if Eames was just quick on his feet, this shouldn’t have been a problem in the first place.

Finding small problems seemed to be one of Eames’ specialties.

Arthur flipped his peacoat’s collar up and shifted slightly, waiting with his umbrella by the hood of a black car.

He took a deep breath and checked his watch. Eames’ plane had landed thirty minutes ago, which should be about the time it would take an English national to get through customs and pick up a bag at luggage check.

And then he waited another twenty minutes in the cold rain.

Arthur checked his phone, double-checked the flight left, and in that time also checked in with one of his contacts who did a bit of light espionage and assured him that—at the very least—a man using the alias Eames used had both checked into and boarded the flight.

So where the fuck was he?

Arthur resisted sending a text to Eames, just in case there was something wrong, or even worse, everything was fine and he’d just come off looking like an idiot.He took a deep breath.

The plane could have delayed offloading. Customs might be bad. The luggage got lost. It was an airport.

He couldn’t help the nerves; it was part of his makeup. If things went wrong it was because of poor planning, and he was the man who made the fucking plans. Arthur was two seconds away from going into the airport himself when Eames stepped out of the doors. He was holding an iced coffee, two canvas bags, and a third duffel bag across his shoulders.

More upsetting than Eames’ choice of outfit (a patterned light green shirt, jeans that were likely acid-washed, and aviator sunglasses that were blue-tinted) was the fact that he was clearly being followed out of the airport. Arthur tensed up immediately, watching as Eames looked from one end of the taxi lineup to the other.

Eames literally took a sip of his iced coffee and waited until the two operatives following him took up on the other end of the taxi loading area before he acknowledged Arthur.

Arthur hated this. It was par for the course, and it wasn’t like they hadn’t dealt with tails before, but the problem was that Arthur hadn’t picked up on any chatter at all on any of his usual baselines, and that was the problem. Usually, he knew who was following them, whether it was the government, organized crime, or even another dreamshare team. The fact that these were unknown operatives made this whole mission at least five times more dangerous.

Eames came over, sipping his iced coffee. He slipped out from the awning, stepping into the rain for a few seconds, and then ducked under the umbrella that Arthur was holding, coming very close. Arthur’s eyes widened at the sudden nearness of the other man.

“Take one of my bags, that’s a dear,” Eames immediately shrugged one of his bags off his shoulders, holding it out to Arthur.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Arthur asked, taking the bag. “When did you get a coffee?”

“While I was looking after the two agents who you’ve just noticed,” Eames somehow got even closer, putting a hand on Arthur’s side.

Arthur’s eyebrows went way up, and he froze against Eames’ touch. Eames was far too close, too casual, and Arthur had no idea what he wanted.

“I’d like to ask you to get in the car or tell me why you’re overcome by the need to feel me up,” Arthur said through gritted teeth.

“I needed a cover,” Eames said. “Give me a kiss and open the door for me.”

“This is absurd,” Arthur said, a slight flush rising to his cheeks. He clenched the umbrella tighter.

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have a plan,” Eames put an arm around Arthur’s waist.“Last chance before this looks horrible to the nice spies who are waiting for me to fuck up so they can put me in jail for a very very long time.”

Arthur, stiffly, very annoyed, leaned in and kissed Eames’ cheek, and then turned to open the door of the limo. He was very deliberately not looking at Eames. “Get in the fucking car.”

“With pleasure, darling.”

As soon as Eames had settled, Arthur slid beside him, immediately closing the door and glancing surreptitiously at the two operatives. They were professionals, and they weren’t moving just because their mark had gotten into a vehicle, but one did glance up, observed the car, and then took out their phone to make a call.

“I need an explanation.”

“A contact in Samarinda liked the work I did and wanted to recruit me.” Eames dug into his bag and produced an extra cell phone, a set of documents, and a box of chocolates with coconut flakes on top and Malaysian words across it. “I refused, said I had another job lined up, and then made it look like I was actually lying about that job and truth revealed, I was in fact jetting home to my partner.”

Arthur blinked. “What?”

“I know, convoluted, but I was under a bit of pressure and it was the easiest excuse I had.” Eames said. “Those chocolates are for you.”

“Who’s following you?”

“They’re taking orders from a South Asian crime boss, goes by the name Arrow. The syndicate is a part of one of the Chinese triads.”

Arthur blinked again. “Eames, there are over two hundred known Chinese triads.”

“Yes, I know that,” Eames snapped. He picked up one of the pieces of paper he had dropped into Arthur’s lap. “And this is an interim driver’s license I lifted off young man number one…” he pointed to the cell phone, “and that’s the burner taken from young operative number two, who is of indeterminate gender, but who was undeniably armed to the teeth, somehow.”

Arthur processed all this very quickly.

“Is Arrow Chinese?”

“Indonesian, a pilar, more or less. Reports to Hong Kong. Not sure on the specifics, but I’m sure that this will start to clear it up, if you can get in the right channels”

Arthur winced, turning over the cell phone and quickly popping out the SIM card. “Christ, Eames. How did you get mixed up in a triad?”

“As if half the Eastern jobs we take aren’t linked to the triads, yakuza, hangman, or your average criminal,” Eames muttered.

Arthur hated that he had a point.

“Will they be following you the whole time you’re in Dublin?”

“Maybe not the whole time,” Eames shrugged, glancing back. Arthur realized he had been checking back frequently. “We’ve already lost them, but I’m sure they’ll pop up again when we least expect it.”

“And you’re supposed to convince them that you’re visiting your…partner?” Arthur stuttered, but only a little, “A part you have just forcibly volunteered me for.”

“You looked very dashing, waiting in the rain for thirty minutes with your little brolly.”

Arthur took a deep calming breath. He was annoyed that Eames had not only wasted his time, but done it intentionally. And now put him in a compromising situation both professionally and personally, and more than anything, didn’t ask his permission for either. But the job wouldn’t work without him, and Arthur didn’t have to put up with all this bullshit.

“What would have happened if Cobb was the one waiting for you?”

“I might have gotten a real kiss,” Eames said, leaning back in the chair. “As it is, I’m stuck with you, and no chance of even a very professional screw in our shared suite, considering your very American, absurdly prudish hangups about sex. A shame, frankly.”

Arthur took another deep breath, hating the flush that rose to his cheeks, and he deliberately looked out the window. He kept a hand on the chocolates that were precariously balanced on his knees as he refused to dignify Eames’ statement with an answer. Instead, he watched the city coming up on the distance and tried not to imagine what exactly Eames meant by "a professional screw."

* * *

Oisín found the whole thing hilarious. Cobb stared at Arthur with a look of betrayal so deep that Arthur wasn’t sure that he’d ever recover. Eames was, of course, unbothered to the fullest, even though he had caused not only a change in plans but also a severe shift of resources.

Leaving Oisín and Eames alone to…flirt, maybe? Arthur and Cobb went into another room of the suite that Cobb had taken for himself and made a plan.

“How did you get suckered into this, Arthur?” Cobb asked, already on his phone.

Arthur pressed his mouth, opening his laptop, logging into a secure VPN, and remote accessing his real computer across the globe. “I didn’t have much of a choice. He was being tailed, and if I had said no we would have been suspicious.”

“That’s convoluted.”

“That’s what I said,” Arthur sighed. He hadn’t time to dig into the documents Eames had lifted, but he was sure they’d be enlightening. Instead, he rearranged a few schedules and booked him and Eames a large room in a fancier hotel down by the riverside.

“I don’t like that you have a public persona for this job,” Cobb said, sitting on the bed. “It makes it more complicated.”

“Tell me something I don’t know, Cobb,” Arthur snapped, shifting around some money and sending out the updated movements. He looked up and saw Cobb watching him carefully. Arthur set his jaw. “What?”

“I trust Eames to keep himself safe,” Cobb said, his voice measured. “I don’t trust him to keep everyone else safe. Especially not if it means risking his own skin.”

Arthur felt the warning echo around him. He took a deep breath, not wanting to dig into that, and looked down at his computer again. “That’s why I’m on your team, then,” he said quietly. “I’m here to keep everyone safe.”

“See that you do.” Cobb stood up, pocketing his phone. “And bring in a gunman. We’ll need extra security if we have a triad red pole following our moves.”

“I’ll ask Oisín if she has a recommendation,” Arthur said, “I want someone local.”

“Fine. Get them on board now, and find out who these people are.”

Arthur nodded, already logging out of the computer and heading back into the main room. It was going to be a long night. 


End file.
